


Chic

by yeaka



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Ficlet, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-03-24 12:20:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13811079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Sometimes Noctis doesn’t look so princely.





	Chic

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “I was just thinking about how you can get a better rate on hotels in the game if you dress Noct up fancy, so what if the opposite is true? What if Noct is out with Prompto or something, or on his own, and he needs to make a quick stop in a really fancy store for a tie to replace one that he accidentally spilled food on before Ignis notices (Ignis will totally notice anyway). But he's dressed really casually, and maybe looks a little homeless depending on if he's wearing his usual fisherman chic, and an employee asks him to leave.” prompt on [the FFXV kinkmeme](https://ffxv-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/4747.html?thread=9081739#cmt9081739).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Final Fantasy XV or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

They finish around midday, hauling Noctis’ many catches back inside their mini-cooler, which fits snugly into the backseat of the parked Regalia. Its gleaming surface looks distinctly out of place at the little back end fishing hole they’ve pulled into, but Noctis likes the quiet spots, the places where he can just sit back and _breathe_ , or so he says. Prompto just follows along. He’s tried to pick up on fishing before, if only for the sake of his best friend, but he’ll probably never _get it_ like Noctis does.

Noctis drives, slotting into the front seat in his casual fishing clothes—dirtied jeans and a mud-stained t-shirt. It’s too bright a day to bother with a jacket, and he doesn’t even have the usual arm brace. A baseball cap completes the look, hiding his unkempt hair. Before Noctis pulls out, Prompto snaps a quick photo. This is that certain side of his prince that most people never get to see. If the tabloids printed that picture, people probably wouldn’t even believe it _was_ Noctis, just a random, poorly-dressed look-a-like with a stolen car above their means.

Prompto doesn’t mind. He likes Noctis in anything and even gets a special kick out of this—the friendly, comfortable, non-royal moments. He hums happily while Noctis drives them smoothly back into the city. Eyes on his camera as his fingers scroll through endless pictures of the pond, Prompto muses, “Man, I can’t believe we actually managed a whole morning without the entourage.” It seems a small miracle that they got out from under Ignis’ kind but watchful eye, and a day off without bodyguards is almost unheard of. Prompto kept expecting Gladio to show up at any minute, a few beefy suits in tow.

But Noctis snorts and nods to the rear view mirror, grunting, “See that black car back there? It’s been following us since we left the apartment.” Prompto glances back, trying to peer through the semi-tinted windows behind them, and deduces that the driver does look suspiciously like a certain Crownsguard. Prompto groans, and Noctis switches lanes.

Then he pulls them off the highway, slowing along a side street, and then they’re pulling to a stop in front of a particularly clean, polished area that Prompto had never seen before his royal friendship. It’s not exactly the kind of place he and Noctis usually piss away their time in. He asks, “What’re you stopping for? We should speed up so we can lose ‘em.”

Noctis grins, clearly tempted, but he still backs them into the parking space. “On the way back, maybe. But first I gotta replace that tie I spilled the cup noodles on last night.”

Prompto would ask why, but he can already guess—better to replace a random, unneeded accessory than face Ignis’ disappointed sigh. Instead, he asks, “You can’t just clean it?”

“Do _you_ know how to get a stain out?”

“Why do you think I always wear black?” Prompto counters, because unlike Noctis, he doesn’t have anyone to clean up his messes. And no one ever taught him how to clean up certain ones himself. 

“We’ll just replace it before Specs notices,” Noctis decides for them, and that’s that. Prompto climbs out of his side and has to wait while Noctis puts the roof up, making it just that fraction harder to steal. As though anyone could get away with snatching the Regalia. The Crownsguard would take them down faster than a King’s Knight noob in online multiplayer.

The store Noctis goes to is a tall, stylish building, boasting wide windows and fancy mannequins. Prompto doesn’t have to see any price tags on the suits and designer dresses to know they probably cost more than his whole apartment. There’s a soft, electronic chime as they step through the glass doors, and the lilting, ambient music inside practically screams _money_. There are no shelves, just white cubbyholes in the angular walls, and an array of bizarre metal sculptures hung around. When Prompto looks up, he actually sees full-blown chandeliers. It makes him shuffle his feet awkwardly—this is the sort of place he’s _not_ supposed to be in.

But Noctis, owner of the whole damn land _and_ this store and everything in it, strolls right over to a wall of crisp ties. It’s a wonder his sneakers don’t leave muddy footprints on the tiled floor. Prompto feels conspicuous following him. Prompto’s dressed just as casually _and_ actually lowborn. 

Noctis either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. He stuffs his hands into the oversized pockets of his jeans and squints at the selection of sleek black ties. They all look the same to Prompto. Maybe they all look the same to Noctis too. But Ignis would probably be able to tell the difference, even if he’s technically closer to Prompto’s class than Noctis’. 

Finally, Noctis seems to make his selection. He reaches out to feel the nearest one, thumb tracing over the expensive fabric. Prompto hopes he picks it quick so they can go. 

Someone clears their throat. Prompto nearly jumps out of his skin. He turns to see a primly dressed woman with slick-backed hair and severe features, tightly frowning. Prompto goes stone cold, and then he realizes, bizarrely and inexplicably, that her displeasure is focused on _Noctis_.

Noctis is the one that actually fished. He’s the one smeared with the grime of the dock and splashed with the muck of the riverbed, his posture just as lazy as the magazines always peg their generation with. Noctis gives her a bored look in return. 

Quietly, discreetly, and somewhere smack in the middle of forcibly polite but uncomfortably rude, the saleswoman tells them, “Excuse me, Sir, but this shop is designed for a certain... caliber... of clients, and I’m afraid that I have to ask you to leave.”

Noctis gives her a look of pure _ice_ that could bring down an Astral. But the woman holds firm. Prompto’s so shocked that he doesn’t even know what to do with himself, so he just defers to Noctis. 

For a second, it looks like Noctis might say something. But then he shuts his mouth again and just grunts, “Fine.” When he storms for the door, Prompto swiftly follows. He can’t shake the feeling that Gladio would’ve left the place in pieces.

It isn’t until they’re through the doors and back onto the pavement that Prompto mutters, “You coulda pulled rank—if she knew she was talking to her prince, we’d have _never_ been kicked out.”

“I’m not gonna give them my money anyway. We’re boycotting that place.”

Prompto nods in full acceptance—he would’ve never shopped there anyway, but of course, for Noctis, he’d boycott even the Crow’s Nest. They march straight back to the car and settle in, their black tail parked three spots back. As Noctis’ fingers close around the steering wheel, Prompto notices a thin streak of dirt marring his forearm.

When Noctis pulls back onto the road, Prompto does sheepishly admit, “Noct? Maybe you should at least, uh... throw on a jacket... before we go into the next one.”

Noctis wrinkles his nose and hits the gas.


End file.
